A Measure of Dominance
by Aelan Greenleaf
Summary: He can't stand the way she parts her shirt for him, as if the mere sight of pale skin and the swell of her breasts will suddenly sway him over to her demands. - Because there was totally some weird sexual tension in that scene between Sherlock and Kitty.


**Written for a Sherlock Kink Meme Prompt.**

**Not sure how I ended up here, but that's okay. I've always thought there was some weird unresolved sexual tension between Sherlock and Kitty in the bathroom scene from The Reichenbach Fall. So here's my take on that. Warnings for hate!sex, and a very rude Sherlock. All con, though. **

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><p>He can't stand the way she parts her shirt for him, as if the mere sight of pale skin and the swell of her breasts will suddenly sway him over to her demands. Those tactics were best suited for ordinary men – normal men who watched porn on their iPhones and bought FMH or Hustler or Playboy to take home with them under their jackets, a guilty indulgence hidden away. He bristles at the thought of her using her sexuality to dominate him – how little she must know, must understand about him to think that was remotely possible.<p>

He stares at her wrist and is tempted, so tempted, to lick the ink off of her skin, not because he wants to but because he knows _she_ wants him to. He can see it in her eyes, in the way she stands, her posture as she leans towards him, her chest pushed out towards his body, trying to close the gap between them. He nearly does it, nearly drops his lips to her skin to taste the sour ink on her wrist, but ultimately decides to drop her hand and moves towards the exit, ignoring her as she tries to speak. Doesn't she know he has a trial to get to?

And then her hand slams onto the swinging door, pushing it shut, and a new wave of irritation and anger rises in him. She's spewing some contrived and entirely inaccurate gossip about the nature of his and John's relationship now, and he feels such... _distaste_ for her that it makes his skin crawl.

"...someone to set the record straight," she is saying, pressing a card down into the breast pocket of his suit, and suddenly he can feel all his agitation come to a head, his hand snapping out to catch her wrist just as she lets go of the card.

She gasps at the contact, and he can feel his own pleasure in her surprise.

He pushes her backwards slowly, his hand still holding her wrist between their two bodies, until she stumbles back against the door. She jumps as she makes contact with the wooden surface, and he smiles to see the shock mixed with lust in her eyes. _Two can play at this game_, he thinks to himself.

He leans in close, his mouth against her ear. "I don't need anyone to _set the record straight_," he murmurs, his free hand ghosting up the bare skin of her leg.

She moans – _moans_ – as he touches her, and it's all he can do not to laugh in her face. Stupid girl. How she ever thought she could do anything for him was laughable, at best. He wants nothing more than to reduce her to a quivering wreck, to show her just how above her he really and truly is.

So he nips at the side of her neck with his teeth, tasting the soft flesh between the edge of her childish pigtail and the lobe of her ear, revelling in the noise she makes under his touch. His hand runs back down her leg once more, before catching the edge of her well worn "posh" skirt, pushing it up her legs to bunch up around her waist. She turns his head towards hers to try and kiss him, but he only bites lightly at her lip before turning his attention back to her neck, her collarbone, and her throat.

Her hands are pulling at the back of his suit jacket, and he swallows a chuckle as he feels the desperation in her movement. The hand on her thigh moves higher now, touching her through the fabric of her underwear, and her body bows inwards at the contact, crying out wordlessly for more. He smiles against her breastbone, his earlier irritation transforming into amusement as he strokes his finger up and down against her cleft. How easy it was, to manipulate her. How simple to turn the tables.

Her hands suddenly drop down from his back to pull at his belt, unclasping both it and unfastening his trousers all in one go. Her palm rubs up against him through the thin material of his pants, and he stifles a moan in her shoulder, pressing his head into the space between her head and torso.

She tries to slip his pants down as well, making to hook her leg up around her waist, but his hand drops back down from between her legs to catch her leg in mid-air. He doesn't say anything, just pulls back and stares at her, and she melts under his unflinching gaze.

"Please," she whispers softly, and that's all he needs to hear.

He pulls her leg up and with his other hand releases himself from the confines of his pants, sliding inside of her in one smooth motion. She moans into his hair as he starts to move, hard and fast and rough, because he does have a trial to get to, after all. He wants to pretend that he doesn't enjoy it for the sake of pure physical pleasure, only for the mental and psychological victory that this act awards him, but he can't deny that he's always loved this, the euphoric rush and adrenaline that accompanies intercourse, an act that he rarely partakes in since the beginning of his on-going abstinence from intravenous drugs. She twists her hips beneath him, her back slamming against the door, and a few swipes of his finger darting down between their bodies to flick at her apex swiftly brings her to climax, her shout buried in the skin of his chest as she slumps against him. He quickly joins her, a few more thrusts bringing him to completion, his own peak a relatively silent and contained affair.

He pulls away from her almost immediately, as soon as he regains enough strength to put his palms on the door and push himself back. He runs one of his hands through his hair to quickly put it back into place, his other hand readjusting himself as he does his trousers up and re-buckles his belt. She's still slumped against the door in front of him, breathing hard, one of her pigtails having worked itself out of its elastic, looking completely and utterly spent.

He steals a quick glance in the mirror to confirm that he is still presentable, and then looks back to her, her body still pressed against the wall. He steps up next to her now, and she can only look up at him, the sated pleasure in her eyes tinted with confusion as he reaches down to fish something out of her pocket.

He can see the horror in her eyes as she realizes that the phone was still on, still recording. He grins at her discomfort, pleased that he'd proven his intellectual dominance after all.

"Still want that quote?" he asks her, leaning in. She doesn't answer.

"Three little words," he continues, his lips brushing the edge of her ear before he pulls back to bring the phone up to his mouth.

He looks down at her, cold and honest. "You. Repel. Me."

And with that, he pushes past her, thrusting the phone back at her as he slips through the door, his mind already set on how best to convince the jury of Moriarty's unquestionable guilt, pushing all thoughts of the pitiable and simple and _ordinary_ Kitty Reilly out of his mind.


End file.
